


Time Travel, Exclamation Point

by Loulouoz



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Play, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Domestic Avengers, Eating Disorders, Mental Contamination, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, fear of intimacy, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loulouoz/pseuds/Loulouoz
Summary: A story of what happens after Endgame and how the retired heroes cope with the consequences of their Time Heist. After Bruce sacrificed himself in exchange of the soul stone, the rest of the original Avengers come to a consensus to retire and pass the baton to a new generation of heroes.After rebuilding the Compound and moving upstate, the retired team deals with a surprising side effect from their aventures with time travel. As it turns out, every participant of the Time Heist has lost a third of their “time stamp”, rejuvenating creams who? In struggling to understand the concept of de-age, Steve Rogers might have found an unorthodox method to aid his family into finding health and happiness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first language is not English and sometimes is a struggle to put my ideas into coherent sentences. I'm trying to improve every day so constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated.

Far from the intense heat of the battle zone, she found refuge among the metal and concrete rubble to mourn her losses. The murmur of the culmination of a war in the distance filled the void absent from her drowned tears. She had never been more aware of her heartbeat or the warm air passing through her system in response to the incessant panting of her lungs. And although she had never felt greater physical pain, the apathetic state in which her soul had taken refuge after witnessing one of her best friend's sacrifice at the hands of an entity as powerful as ruthless prevented her from feeling. Tears ran down her cheeks, and like a river stream, they carried with them the trail of grime she had picked up during the battle. Unwrapping her arms from around her legs, she leaned her back against what was left of a wall and carried both hands to the back of her head. She clenched her fists intertwining her fingers with fibers of reddish hair, compacting all her frustration in an action that whitened her knuckles. In another act of stubbornness to anchor her to the physical plane, her skin bristled on contact with a weighted source of heat over her shoulder.

“The Quinjet is here, it’s time to go home.”

It was Steve's voice, as unshakable as ever, but the strength of his timbre was painfully shallow. His hand on her shoulder was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but his exhaustion turner it into proof of how close he was of collapsing himself. It never ceased to be impressive how much respect Steve had for the figure of Captain America. Even after losing everything in the battle, he forced himself to carry the patriotic icon emblem with honor. Captain America walked with his forehead held high, dragging Steve Roger’s will to live on the ground. In the heat of combat, Natasha had stolen a glance and seen the toll of damage his shield had sustained. The strongest metal on the planet and Thanos had shattered it in seconds, Natasha refused to imagine the damage that the strongest man on the planet had borned.

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” She stated, refusing to feel self-pity. There was a time in her life when she allowed herself to define the word home, but the image she came to visualize belonged to a shared dream that had died with Bruce. She knew that Steve probably hadn't meant going home per se, at least not right away. As with the culmination of most of their missions, the Quinjet would probably take a large part of the warriors to facilities where they could regroup, cleanse, rest, and honor the memory of fallen soldiers before they broke ways to then return home. Either way, the idea didn't appeal to her. There, among the ruins, she could find solace. Surrounded by destruction, she could merge with the environment.

“You should be with family.”

“I don't-”

“I had nothing and then I got this family. Your words, not mine.”

He was right. Having spent years in the Red Room being indoctrinated otherwise, the Black Widow had fallen victim to Natasha's weakness. The master assassin shattered and as a Russian doll, the frail little girl hiding inside was the only thing left among the shards of porcelain. A little girl who wanted to cling to the illusion of love, who wanted pathetically and desperately to believe that it was possible to be part of something else. The assassin was smart enough not to feel, to disassociate herself completely. But Natasha was no longer the assassin, she was no longer intelligent, calculated or strong. Now she was the person mourning the loss of a colleague, all because she had been stupid enough to play family and force the roles of her loved ones into whom should be nothing more than job acquaintances. If only the assassin had claimed the little girl's life among her victims, but maybe the assassin was weak as well.

“He should be here. He didn’t even get to know that we would make it.”

“He knows.”

Natasha had to smile at that. She had always made fun of people's ingenuity, but the truth is that she would have given anything to be like them. To believe that good would always rule over evil, that after a life of suffering something better would come. She understood that Steve only intended to console her, but to believe that Bruce could be in a better place observing his legacy from afar would not only be stupid, but it would also be cruel and unfair. And still, there was no point in telling Steve so.

“Right.”

He offered her a hand and she took it. Together they walked through the rubble to the open field. Apparently, the Wakandeans and Skrulls had already returned to their lands through the very portals through which they had come. Had it not been for the yellowish sparkles of light in the air, Natasha would have been able to convince herself that the memory she had of the sorcerers practicing magic had been merely a hallucination. But the proof was there, specks of light dancing in the air amidst dust particles and ashes.

“A portal to a dumpster would surely make cleanup easier,” She managed to joke.

“At least we managed to keep the battle in our own playground this time.”

“I thought the whole world was our playground.”

Steve had a point though. It was comforting to think that at least this time they would not have to deal with public discontent over the destruction of state property. No hearings, no lawsuits. She shouldn't give so much importance to the unfounded opinion of uninformed people, but she couldn’t help it. After being raised on the basis of judgment, pain, and neglect, you'd think she'd be immune to criticism. She wasn’t. She was raised to listen to criticism, not to dismiss it.

“What took you so long? I’m dying over here.”

Tony Stark and his dark humor welcomed them in. The ship looked smaller with so many people crowded in it- aliens are considered people. Forced to sit on the floor between Bucky and Steve, Natasha cursed Hydra. Had it not been for their infiltration into SHIELD, they would not be forced to make their way back to the city cramped in a small prototype ship.

“Where are we headed to anyway?” Natasha questioned Steve. For the past five years, the Compound had been its only place of assembly. Before that, it had been the tower in New York and even before that the headquarters of SHIELD. Now the Compound was nothing more than a tumult of rubble surrounded by intergalactic garbage, the Tower was owned by an eccentric businessman and it was better that she didn't even dwell on what had become of SHIELD headquarters. Too late, she cursed Hydra again.

“The Stark Mansion.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the battle, the participants of the Time Heist come to learn about a surprising side effect of time playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of self-harm.

Trust Tony Stark to turn such an old and ostentatious property into a secret barracks. There it was, Stark Mansion as imposing as ever, proudly perched on the top of its own hill. Most people would have found much interest in the juxtaposition of luxury and the petulance of the exterior against the welcoming and playful nature of the interior and how this could serve as a metaphor for the nature of the current homeowner. But Natasha was far too intrigued by the foundation of the property, to care much about anything else. They were on a coastal plateau, a few minutes from the Atlantic Ocean, so the irregularity of the land surface on which the mansion sat stood out. The improbability of the location of the rock and stone tumult coupled with its perfect symmetry led Natasha to think that perhaps the hill had been raised merely to elevate the Stark mansion. But to manufacture a geographic phenomenon just to maintain the illusion that he was above all else would have been too absurd and petulant of an effort, even for a man like Howard Stark. Still, Natasha didn't rule out that possibility entirely.

“We’ll be with you in a minute, Miss Romanov,” came the staff’s only acknowledgment of her existence since she had been ushered into the infirmary and have blood drawn from her almost two hours ago.

“It’s not nice to spy on your friends,” Natasha said to the open room, not really looking at any direction in particular.

“Maybe I just don’t care to be nice.” Came the reply from the air vents. A house as old as this one should not have a ventilation system that could accommodate an adult male in its ducts. “You cut your hair.”

And indeed she had. After washing her hair three times and scrubbing in the shower until her skin became irritated, she had sat outside the showers in her bathrobe toying with her knife. She had tried to burn the feeling of filth by standing under the shower and letting the boiling water seep through every inch of her skin. But the heat had only made her sweat and the sweat only served to adhere the filth even more to her body. The ice-cold water hadn't helped either, nor had the soaps and shampoos, nor had the abrasive chemicals that she used to sterilize her knives. Sometimes the only thing that helped was the knives itself. But she knew that unless she nailed the knife deep into her abdomen and let the filth drain completely, the superficial cuts on her ankles would only alleviate the discomfort momentarily.

“It’s the worst part of it all, isn’t it? Removing the flesh and blood from the blades after a battle.” She hadn't noticed the arrival of the green-skinned girl, or Nebula for that matter. The assassin would have noticed, but she was not the assassin anymore.

With Nebula and her sister in the room, she had no longer dared to alleviate the discomfort. She had to be very careful not to allow others to discover that she sometimes relieved her own pain rather than bearing it silently. She wasn't supposed to inflict the pain herself, that was cheating. But no one else was doing it for her, probably because they weren't supposed to dignify her pain by materializing it. She wasn't supposed to have the easy way out either, that's why the doctors always healed her and she was ordered to take care of her wounds after a battle. She took the easy way out in the locker room though. She held her hair in her right fist and with a swift and seamless movement she traversed the bundle of strands definitively splitting apart the pristine platinum from the unruly burning red. There had been no pain to dignify her discomfort, but just knowing that there would be a little less of herself to be cleansed ease her a little.

“Well, I was tired of pretending I didn't care about my appearance,” She smiled, but her smile was nowhere near the gesture the assassin had perfected so many years ago. It was not a calculated gesture, perfect even in its imperfections. It was not an almost symmetrical gesture, there was not an almost there to maintain the illusion of spontaneity.

“They are worried,” Clint said. “Helen Cho has been scrutinizing our samples of blood for almost two hours. She only looks up from her microscope to take notes down and curse under her breath. Her worry doesn’t sit well with the staff, they are anxious.”

“Thanks for the debrief.” Natasha tries to sound sarcastic, but there’s more than a hint of worry in her voice. The assassin’s voice never used to falter. “How’s Tony doing?”

"They're gonna amputate the charred limb and give him a new one made of organic tissue. He’s supposed to be fine after that.”

He’s going to be fine, Natasha knows that much. Her understanding of gamma rays, biotechnology, and science, in general, is limited. But Tony Stark had managed to harness the power of the Infinity Stones to wipe out Thanos and his army and had left the battlefield on foot. A human was not supposed to survive such a feat, but Tony was a stubborn man.

“How about Loki?”

“He’s being a pain in the ass as always, but he’s fine.”

Natasha still had her doubts about Loki, and they were not unfounded. But she had to accept that the God of Mischief had reached a certain level of redemption after having been the one to nullify the losses caused by the decimation. Bruce was supposed to be the one to wield the glove once they had collected all the stones and bring back the lives Thanos had claimed. When they still believed that it would be impossible for a human to survive direct exposure to radiation from the stones, Thor had offered to be the one to wield the glove but Tony had refused. In a display of irony, it had turned out that Loki was the God with the most emotional stability at their disposal, and so it was him who wielded the glove and with a dramatization of Shakespearian character snapped his fingers in an unprecedented act of redemption.

“Are you going to come out of the vents at any point?” There was a difference between making an objective analysis of the facts and overthinking, the first was productive and the second was only destructive. The assassin never used to overthink, so Natasha changed the subject.

“I should check on the others.”

“That won’t be necessary. Agent Romanov, if you could just follow me.” He was a slim, brunette man in a lab coat, his features betrayed his Hispanic background. “Agent Barton if you take the ventilation duct to the left you should be able to get to Dr. Cho's lab. You are welcome to come down and join us in the room, otherwise, adjust your sound amplifier, you won't want to miss out on the discussion that will unfold.”

She followed him and that’s how she found out why they had been worried. They were getting younger, that was the heart of the matter. There was a detailed explanation of the information they had accumulated so far. Dr. Cho showed them diagrams, academic papers and 3D projections of a human organism where she displayed a simulation of the affections their bodies had suffered as a result of their adventures with the Pym particles, the quantum realm and the creation of their own Einstein-Rosen bridge. Natasha being an advocate for the economy of words couldn't understand why they bothered to share with them all the specifics. Maybe if Bruce or Tony where here the fancy terminology and intrinsic narrative wouldn't have fallen in deaf ears, but the former was death and the latter was being prepared for surgery. And so Dr. Cho was stuck dumbing down her findings for two senior Super Soldiers, the empty shell of an exhausted CEO, a Navy veteran, a passed out ex-con, two oblivious Gods, a pair of bright-color-skinned aliens, a resurrected SHIELD agent, an archer in the vents and a former assassin.

"We'll have to keep monitoring you closely over the next few weeks. Just to be safe." Her educated resolution was that over the next few days, the process of rejuvenation would take away almost a third of their years. They had no reason to believe that the development of this phenomenon would hurt or wreak havoc on their health. 

“Great, now I’ll be a 100-year-old man who’s mentally forty but physically in his late twenties,” Bucky grumbled. Natasha could tell he was not impressed, she wasn’t either.

“More like mentally four, but go off I guess.” The assassin wouldn’t have laughed but Natasha couldn’t help it, the air vent’s comic timing was, as always, on spot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has trouble sleeping and ends up bumping into an unexpected visitor to make for a surprisingly awkward rendezvous in the laundry room.

She couldn’t sleep, although this isn't to say that she really had tried. It wasn't one of those nights when the bed appeared to be against her, and however much she turned and rearranged the pillows and blankets nothing quite seemed to fit properly. It was rather one of those nights when even the effort required to turn off the lights was too much, and that's saying something when you have the most advanced artificial intelligence system of the twenty-first century at your disposal. Well, more like the most advanced artificial intelligence system and the close second best now that Tony had brought back JARVIS as a souvenir of his excursion to the year 2014. But even as second best, FRIDAY was still overqualified to play the role of a mere butler.

“FRIDAY what time is it?”

“It’s 03:43 EDT, Wednesday 19th, November 2023.” So much for not degrading de A.I. to play the role of her virtual assistant.

She knew she should at least attempt to get some rest. While there was no reason for a person like her to strive to maintain adequate sleeping patterns, even the assassin had always sought to have enough rest to perform well on duty. The assassin had learned long ago that there was an important difference between sleeping and resting. Sleeping was a luxury worthy of innocent people, it was a progressive series intertwining imagination, memories, quietude, and reflection. When an assassin tried to circumvent the rules that dictated the above, they were punished with a succession of memories, tragedy, noise, and guilt. People with blood on their hands were meant to rest only. They were supposed to deplete every energy resource before they set out to rest and once they did so they had to ensure that it was for no longer than absolutely necessary. It was practical because the killer had been trained not to feel when she was conscious. So as long as her mind was exhausted enough when she indulged her need for rest, she could avoid the mind tricks and feeling remorse altogether. The heart of the matter was that Natasha no longer had to rely on her subconscious to feel remorse.

"Agent Romanov, if I may, my monitors are picking up fast, pounding heartbeats and shortness of breath. My assessment is that you are experiencing great levels of anxiety. My advice is to start a slow diaphragmatic breathing exercise to prevent you from developing a panic attack.”

“You're a doctor now, JARVIS?" But JARVIS had worked with Sir long enough to understand that this was a sarcastic remark so he didn't bother to respond.

“Agent Romanov, if you need any assistance I could page-”

“That won’t be necessary, FRIDAY.”

Not even the most advanced artificial intelligence systems were supposed to be able to process jealousy -or any other feelings for that matter-, but the way FRIDAY and JARVIS continued to compete to prove themselves better than the other in the eyes of the mansion's inhabitants called that assertion into question. The bickering would be entertaining if it weren't for her being dragged into it every time. In spite of this, JARVIS was right, Natasha's pulse was racing and as a consequence, she had started to sweat. She needed to take a shower.

“Agent Romanov, I took the liberty of starting the shower for you.” It should not be possible but the declaration of the A.I. is underlined with smugness.

“Thank you, JARVIS. You can go back to sleep now.” She doesn’t even bother to question how he had known that she would request a shower because she knows her behavior patterns had become that predictable.

“I’m always awake and at your disposition, Agent Romanov.” Natasha wishes he wasn’t, but maybe sleep wasn’t meant for I.A.’s either.

She let out a sigh and slowly slipped out of bed to put her slippers on. The bed was made and the only indicator that she had spent the night in it were the creases on the cover on the upper middle side as well as the pair of pillows perched on the headboard that she had used to give support to her back. A few weeks ago her back would have taken the bill for spending the whole night sitting in a lotus flower position. But those were the ailments of a woman in her late thirties, and according to the results of Dr. Cho's last physical examination prior to confirming that her cells had reverted to their regular aging course, Natasha now carried the body of a young woman in her mid-twenties.

The shower was faster than usual, perhaps because she had already done the deeper cleaning earlier in the night before going to bed. She washed her hair once and when she scrubbed her body she only reached for regular soap and a soft loofah. She dried herself with a towel and in doing so traced and delicately examined every inch of her new smooth, silky skin. The last few weeks had not only taken away the later years of her life but had also wiped away every scar she had accumulated since she was born. That was the main difference between her present-day body and the body she had when she had really been a young woman in her twenties; the new body was oblivious to the passage of time. Perhaps the outline resembled the body of her younger self but the canvas was still completely pristine. And although only superficial, this change had somewhat alleviated Natasha's discomfort in regards to feeling dirty. She was still taking an average of two showers a day, but the time had not yet come when desperation might lead her to sketch scars on her new skin.

“Agent Romanov, you have just used the last clean towel you had at your disposal. I understand that you have particular preferences about never using a towel twice in between washings, if I may suggest that you remember to do your laundry before your next shower.”

Natasha scrunched up her nose at that, but ultimately decided it was an opportunity to make something productive out of her night. She finished putting on a set of silk pajamas and neatly folded the towel she had just unoccupied before putting it in the laundry basket along with the others. Upon returning to her room, she began peeling the sheets from her bed, having decided that they would need a wash as well. She folded the bedclothes all too military style like before putting them in the basket with the towels and headed to the laundry room.

“Agent Romanov, the second and third right-hand washers are available. I have already taken upon myself to program them with your preferred wash cycle.”

“Thank you, JARVIS. Uh- please make sure to use that strong detergent, the one from Germany?”

“Of course, Agent Romanov.” If there is something like a virtual tongue, Natasha knows that JARVIS has to bite his to avoid delivering his speech about how the controversial import product is too abrasive and with each use compromises the overall structure of the linen.

As if she had all the time in the world - which is probably true - Natasha begins by unfolding the towels and throwing them in the washing machine in a zigzag pattern around the barrel. In the washing room, there are five other front-loading washers but Natasha prefers the top-loading probably for reasons that have little to do with practicality and much to do with nostalgia. When she is done with the first load and has shut the lid, boiling water begins to fill the washer. The detergent reacts with the hot water and volatile particles of ammonia and bleach odor impregnate the air. She was in the middle of sorting out a second load of laundry when she came to realize she had company.

“Barnes?”

“I uh- I’ll come back later.”

He looked startled, but that did not explain the pink flush that spread over his cheeks like watercolor as soon as Natasha laid eyes on the bundle of sheets in his arms. The assassin would probably have boasted of her ability to make the soldier uncomfortable with just one glance and would have continued her inspection of him shamelessly. But Natasha simply offered him a faint smile and carried on with her laundry.

“Don’t be stupid, there are a dozen washing machines in here and it’s not like I’m hoarding all of ‘em.” They both knew she was right, but it still took a few seconds before James decided to walk into the room altogether and find a vacant washing machine.

“Sergeant Barnes, the machine to the right of Agent Romanov is available and ready-to-go with all pertinent presets.”

Somewhat what FRIDAY announced led James to release a muffled groan. Dragging his feet, he walked up next to Natasha and in an accelerated and clumsy manner tossed his bedclothes into the washing machine before practically sealing the lid as he closed it. It was painful to see him in that state, but even more painful was the fact that Natasha could not decipher the reason behind his out-of-character behavior.

“I hate the smell of ammonia.” She was not sure whether the phrase was supposed to serve as a conversation starter or whether it was simply the natural reaction of a person when surrounded by such a revolting smell.

“I uh- sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for? Is not like it’s your fault that the only detergent worth anything stinks of ammonia.” She looked at him incredulously.

Then something clicked. The assassin would have been so ashamed to know how long it had taken her to figure this one out. For the first time that night, she took the time to painstakingly examine James' body language. From the way he tried to hide his blush by tilting his head and letting his hair fall on his face to the way he nervously fidgeted with his left foot. It seemed incredible to think that this man in front of her could have been the fearsome Winter Soldier once. Despite the metal arm, Natasha had never seen an adult man look so small and helpless. The human part in her wished to comfort the vulnerable part in him, but realistically she had to remind herself that the sensitivity required to do such thing was not part of her specific set of skills.

“I need to go back to my room, I’ll retrieve this later.” Natasha did not want him to leave feeling so defeated, but she was unable to do anything except watch the soldier drag his feet up to the exit. “Um- please don’t tell Steve I was here.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She really wouldn’t, seeing as she wasn't supposed to be in the laundry room at night unsupervised either. Since that night when Steve had found her rubbing her skin with lye at SHIELD's headquarters, her visits to the laundry room at night had officially been labeled off-limits by the blonde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you have any suggestions for the next chapter or any constructive criticism that might help me improve the story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is feeling out of place in the mansion and tries his best to lay low and not bother anyone with his presence. Things don't exactly go accordingly to his plan.

In Bucharest, he had found a refuge. It was true that his life at the time was far from comfortable, but it was dignified. The walls that sheltered him from the outside were infested with mold and the food of dubious origin that he kept on the shelves of the kitchen only served to feed the rodents of the building. But at least those were his walls and his food, something he had earned on his own. Now he lived in a mansion and got his food from a pantry with more variety of product than the market where he used to buy fruit -when he could afford it- in Romania. Now he slept in a bed with a base and silk sheets, but any given day he would trade that for the old yellowish mattress with squeaky springs from his old apartment -not that the marshmallow on which he now slept wasn't close to matching that same yellowish tone-. All the comforts and amenities were supposed to make life easier in the mansion, but Bucky just felt overwhelmed.

“Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers has just left the kitchen, I estimate you have a thirty-three-minute window before the next resident makes an appearance to raid the pantry for a midday snack.”

“Thank you, FRIDAY.”

Well, perhaps not entirely overwhelmed. If there was one thing he appreciated about his time at the mansion, it was the constant presence of FRIDAY. He knew that even in the twenty-first century the A.I. was considered a privilege, but somehow his fascination with technology managed to prevail over his uneasiness with luxury. Early on, he had noticed that the rest of the inhabitants of the mansion favored the A.I.’s counterpart with the elegant accent, and as a result of a psychological projection, Bucky had found himself siding with FRIDAY. And so it had been that a strange friendship had grown between HYDRA's former most valuable deadly weapon and Tony Stark's most misunderstood creation.

With fast-paced and equally stealthy steps he made his way to the kitchen. A sigh was allowed upon arrival at the pantry for having avoided running into anyone on the way and without much more time to lose, he started scanning the shelves for products suitable for _his_ consumption. On the lower left side of the rack facing the door, he knew he could find a container full of stale, tasteless cereal among dozens of other much more sugary and appetizing options. But before reaching for the vitamin and mineral fortified cardboard he did a thorough survey of the pantry for other items of spoiled food, for though it wasn't often, there were times when he would be lucky enough to find some rotten fruit or shores of hard bread too.

“Sergeant Barnes, there are two bananas in bad condition in the fruit bowl over the breakfast bar and there is a carton of milk that Agent Barton left outside the refrigerator that by now must have gone sour.”

It's hard to decide what to do next. On the one hand, he would like to have his cereal with milk just this time and his mouth is already salivating at the mere idea of tasting something sweet -even if this something comes in the form of a rotten banana-. But on the other hand, he doesn't want to get his hopes up too much because there have been times before when FRIDAY had exaggerated the poor condition of some products and Bucky had ended up feeling infinitely guilty for eating the food that perhaps someone else would have wanted. But the super soldier's appetite beats reason, and Bucky soon finds himself pouring curdled milk on his cereal and raiding the fruit bowl sitting atop of the breakfast bar. In the end, it turns out that the bananas were just a little brown and soft and not really spoilt, but there is a nectarine that has a rotten split pit and grey-black mold on one side so Bucky takes that instead.

“You are not really planning on eating that, are you?”

Even though FRIDAY had given him a thirty-three-minute window, Bucky wasn't supposed to let his guard down. He was supposed to be attentive and ready to take an escape route before anyone could run into him, especially if that someone happened to be Steve or Natasha. Although if suppositions were what this was all about, Agent Coulson wasn’t supposed to be back at the mansion until Thursday.

“No, I uh- I was just throwing it out.” The action proceeded to the statement, and soon he said goodbye to the idea of having something sweet to wash his palate after the astringency of the sour milk dried his mouth.

“If you like nectarines, I’m sure JARVIS can order some for you. With the drone delivery, they probably will get here before noon.” The way the agent phrases it seems like an offer, but his tone of voice is determined.

“That won’t-”

“The nectarines will be here in eighteen minutes. Would that be all, Agent Coulson?” It seems that the A.I. with the English accent came to the same conclusion that he did, as he ignores Bucky altogether to speak over him.

“That would be all indeed. Thank you, JARVIS,” Coulson says sincerely.

“I- I’ll pay for them.” Bucky is quick to say.

“Son, sit down.”

It's an order, and if there's anything he can do, it's following orders blindly. He sits down. Coulson sits on the continuous stool to his right. There are seven stools at the breakfast bar and Bucky can't understand why Coulson chooses to sit right next to him, but he won't question it. The agent takes a few moments to organize his ideas, his furrowed brow and the way he purses his lips give him away. The only advantage of being so close is that Bucky can examine the agent with military scrutiny. It is assumed that having been part of Time Heist, the agent had suffered the same side effects as the rest of the time travelers. But Coulson doesn't look a year younger than fifty. His hair is thin and translucent, his eyes sink into dark sockets and the map of wrinkles on his face tell the story of a man who has laughed as much as he had worried.

“Son, you know Tony doesn't have a problem with you being here, don't you?”

“I killed his family.” He did, and he can't just sit back and disregard the blood on his hands as the others do.

“HYDRA is responsible for the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark, that much is true. But your role in the assassinations is not that of the perpetrator, but that of the weapon. There was no free will in your actions, you were not the person who pulled the trigger but the weapon that was fired. It's not your place to feel guilty.” The agent's words overflow with anger and pain, but it is impossible to say for whom those feelings are intended.

"When the master of a dog gives him the order to kill, the state slaughters the dog. There is no free will on behalf of the dog, but the state still holds it accountable." There's a lot more he wants to say. Things like that a person can't do completely with no freedom, that even if HYDRA tortured him and completely unmade him in order to put him back together to suit their taste, Bucky couldn't say that he's not at least a little bit responsible for the creation of the Winter Soldier. That he gave in, that at some point he made the decision that succumbing to HYDRA's wishes for him would be better than continuing to be tormented. But he doesn't say that because he’s been trained to not admit weakness.

“That's the only way to keep the dog from obeying the same command a second time. But you are no longer susceptible to the Winter Soldier’s code phrases and therefore don't pose the same threat.” Phil's explanation at least follows logic, so Bucky doesn't refute it. Yet logic and reality are rarely the same.

“Don't you think it's unfair to Stark that the reminder of his parents’ assassination lives under his roof and eats his food?”Bucky decides to change his approach.

"If you haven't noticed, all the inhabitants of this mansion are haunted by ghosts from the past. It is not your place to judge which are the circumstances that make dealing with pain easier or more difficult for anyone but yourself. If Tony really had a problem with you being at the mansion, he wouldn't have asked Steve for you both to stay.” 

“I still think-”

“You said you killed his family, but the only family Tony has ever known is in this mansion. It's not perfect and it was built from broken pieces that weren't meant to fit anywhere, but it's all we have. For reasons I can't comprehend, you're the last piece that was missing and now that you have found your place there is no way you can leave without causing destruction and irreparable damage.” There is a pause whose only purpose might well be to serve as a melodramatic resource, but Bucky wants to think it's proof that the agent is trying to make a decision about what he's going to say next. "It's time for you to leave the soldier behind and start honoring the man James Buchanan Barnes once was. If you really care about Tony, if you really want to redeem yourself, if you really want to be worthy of the efforts Steve has made for you, then it's time for you to take your place in this family and honor that place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me a comment if you are enjoying the story so far :)


End file.
